Disclaimer: "Detective Conan" belongs to Gosho Aoyama.

Thanks a lot to my wonderful beta DoRaeMon (Astarael00 on this site or Rae00 on Livejournal), who has retired in the meantime.

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FS

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SARCASMS

(edited)

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Sarcasm II (1)

"Allegro rubato"

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It was raining when I reached Tokyo, and I was soaked to the skin by the time I entered the Grande Suzuki Hotel in Beika (everything here seemed to belong to the Suzukis: Suzuki restaurants, Suzuki pensions, Suzuki hotels, Suzuki cosmetic shops, Suzuki boutiques). Although I had to pay an unreasonably high price for a tiny room at the Grande Suzuki, I planned to stay there for at least one night before I searched for a room in a different, cheaper hotel. I was too worn out and exhausted to go anywhere at the moment. After spending twenty hours on planes and airports, I only wanted to enjoy a shower and then a nice long sleep.

When I woke up, it was already half past ten p.m, too late to have a decent meal (I tend to get stomachache whenever I eat too much at night) but not too late for a drink and a snack. Apart from that, sitting alone in the hotel at such an hour seemed unbearable to me. My mother and I had loved to have our tea together at night, spending the hours from ten to one o'clock reading and chatting about our day (actually, only I talked while she listened to me). After she died, I had begun to take strong sleeping pills and go to bed at nine p.m. Stupidly, I had forgotten to take them with me when I left London. And, worse than that, I had even forgotten to pack my nightwear and underwear in my suitcase. But I was going to solve that problem tomorrow (after all, there must be other shops in Tokyo than those Suzuki boutiques which were certainly just as sinfully expensive as the Grande Suzuki Hotel)! The only problem I had tonight was how to find a nice little bar (it's no good sitting in the hotel bar where other guests could come up with the idea of getting into conversation with me) where I could stay until the "dangerous hours" (which could remind me of the tea sessions with my mother) were gone.

Even though I am a girl of many talents (I absolutely object to false modesty!), I have no sense of direction at all. For fear of getting lost at this hour, I chose the widest street at the left of the first crossroads and decided to go straight forward until I found a café. I was lucky, as only after a ten-minute walk I found a small, very agreeable looking restaurant which would—in case one could trust the information on the small square board at the door—be open until half past one a.m. (which meant it was perfect for me).

Everybody turned their heads when I entered the room, staring at me as if I had walked into an important meeting, their eyes following me on my way from the door to the small table for two where I sat down before they turned their attention to their drinks and meals again. At the table on my left an elegant blonde man between forty and forty-five kept watching me perceptively even when everybody else had averted their eyes, smiled at me when I looked up to meet his gaze.

In my peripheral vision I could see that the others had not really turned their attention to their meals but were still watching me secretly. An elderly man who was sitting with his back to me frowned disapprovingly at me when he met my eyes and then turned away, apparently annoyed. The woman at his table shot me a sorrowful look as if she pitied me while he was muttering something about "dyed her hair".

Why did I look so strange to them? Was there anything wrong with my appearance, my clothes, my hair? There was a middle-aged woman who was whispering something to her friend, a plump man near the bar who had stopped eating when I came in; and there was a young woman who was staring at me as if I was an alien from Mars.

The waiter, a shy, lanky young man, flashed me a nervous smile when I ordered my baguette and my tea. Even he seemed to feel uncomfortable around me. Once or twice I caught him staring in dismay at my hair. And sometimes I could observe that he was gazing thoughtfully at me as if there was something strange about me he couldn't put his finger on.

Come to think of my hair—I had never thought of dyeing it. If Shinichi Kudo really knew my mother, he would grow suspicious as soon as he saw my hair colour. Dye it tomorrow, I said to myself and glared at the dyed-blonde man, who was still leering at me.

When I was eating my baguette (the waiter was still watching me with the sort of expression one would wear while attending a funeral), I felt the eyes of another person on my right watching me attentively. Who is it this time, I wondered in annoyance. Discreetly directing my gaze from the baguette to the right, I spotted the strawberry blonde at the bar, who was frowning at me, her eyes hidden behind dark-coloured glasses. She was an attractive young woman between twenty and thirty-five (it was hard to tell her real age with the hundred layers of make-up on her face); and I couldn't understand why nobody was staring at her, as she was wearing black fishnets, an almost transparent black dress with a very daring décolleté, and a pair of red T-strap shoes. She herself seemed to have taken some interest in the blonde Casanova, as she was smiling sweetly at him from time to time while he—for a reason I couldn't understand—kept staring at me.

Yet it wasn't her who aroused my interest but the man in the dark corner behind her. He was sitting with his back against me and was the only person who didn't turn to stare at me when I entered the room. There was something familiar about his shoulders and his back. And when I discovered that there was a small mirror behind the bar, I realized that he, too, was watching me through the mirror, with a strange expression of alertness and concern in his eyes. I didn't recognize him immediately, as he looked so different from the photo in the newspaper. His hair was much longer, jet black, and his eyes were in contrast to it very bright. There was much intelligence in them and genuine friendliness which I hadn't expected. After seeing his photo in the newspaper, I had imagined him to be an arrogant young teeny, a self-important spoiled brat. But, sitting alone at that table, sipping his coffee silently, he looked charismatic and mature, not in the least like a cocky little sleuth.

Then he lost my admiration at once when I saw how he cast a long glance at the strawberry blonde at the bar. I could swear that he gave her legs and her décolleté special attention before he looked into the mirror again, studying mine thoughtfully as if he was comparing her curves to my rather slim figure.

Well, he is only a dumb little boy like the rest of the male population at his age, after all, I thought, angry at him for shattering my illusions in one brief moment and at myself for becoming so easily susceptible to him just because I liked the look in his eyes.

He had finished his coffee and summoned the waiter for the bill. Then he looked through the mirror at me and gave me a meaningful nod as if he expected me to do the same.

I looked away. But, since I had already finished my meal, I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't summon the waiter and pay the bill just like he had done. Glancing into the mirror again, I saw he was still gazing at me. Slowly, he rose and walked to the door without taking his eyes from me, without minding the other people, who were watching us. At the door he stopped and smiled. Then he left the restaurant—glancing at me for one more time as he passed the window next to me, winked at me, and disappeared behind the corner.

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I must be insane, I thought when I left the restaurant and hurried in the direction I had seen him walking. I must be insane, following a man I didn't know anything about. Why did he look at me like that, anyway? But it would have been unbearable to stay in that restaurant with everybody's eyes on me. Why didn't I dye my hair before I came here?

Oh great, I thought when I found myself standing at a small junction (have I already mentioned that I have no sense of direction?). Where had he gone?

I only heard a faint rustle before he appeared in front of me. He must have been hiding in the small street on my left, waiting for me.

"Hi," he said solemnly. His voice was pleasant, but his tone of voice wasn't. No one was on the streets except for us. The streets were completely empty, which was strange for a metropolis like Tokyo, especially at this time, in summer. Now that he was standing there under the light of the street lamp, he looked all of the sudden cold and dangerous. His eyes were not smiling.

"Hi," I echoed, trying to give myself an air of nonchalance although I was feeling sick. The premonition of real danger came upon me with a strange pain in my stomach and in my chest, and it dawned on me that I was standing in front of a stranger, a man who was much taller and undoubtedly much stronger than I was, in a completely empty street in the middle of the night. I only needed to turn round and run down the street and around the next corner to get back to the restaurant. I could claim that I had forgotten something there. But I remembered that I was wearing sandals in which I couldn't run without him catching me within seconds. I also doubted that I would have a chance even if I were wearing sneakers, as he had long legs and looked not only thin but also athletic, like someone who spent half of their free time on the track or on the playing field. Undoubtedly he was a fast runner. He was studying me critically just as I was studying him. He knew that I wouldn't stand a chance.

My heart leapt when I heard footsteps from behind me in the distance. At least someone would hear me if I screamed.

Shinichi Kudo looked past me in the direction of the footsteps and frowned.

"Be quiet and come with me," he whispered, wrapped his arm firmly around my waist, and drew me towards the dark, small street on our left. I opened my mouth to protest. But I couldn't utter anything but a very weak "Hey—" before he covered my mouth with his hand. A glance to the left, and I realized in horror that the street led to a dead end.

"Hush," he said, pushing me gently against the wall. "I won't let anybody harm you. Just stay quiet!" He took his hand from my mouth.

Other girls would have grasped the chance to scream. But (I really can't remember that I had ever screamed in my life!) I couldn't make any sound even though I was sure that he was going to kill me here and now. I didn't have the strength to free myself from his grasp, and I was so nervous that my knees threatened to give away. He was holding me with both hands, standing so near me that I couldn't see his face but could only hear his heart beating. In contrast to me he had a calm, steady heartbeat—the heartbeat of a killer who wouldn't even bat an eyelid when he was strangling his victim. Looks are deceiving, I thought in bitterness. His appearance was one of a friendly, cultivated person. I had even felt something like attraction towards him a few minutes ago.

The footsteps came nearer and stopped for a moment before I could hear them again. Shinichi Kudo sighed.

"Okay," he whispered into my ear. "Shut your eyes and giggle! Now!"

He was holding me in a tight embrace, pressing his body against mine. The footsteps had reached our street. I didn't shut my eyes but turned my head to the right, where I saw the blonde man standing there, staring at us. Shinichi Kudo's right hand, which was hidden from the man, was tickling me as if he was trying to make me laugh. To my astonishment, he pretended to kiss my ear and my neck. But his lips didn't touch me. He was only touching my ear with his nose. And he played his task quite convincingly, his left hand tugging impatiently at the straps of my dress and stroking my arm. But since I felt that he wasn't going to do anything to me, I began to relax. To my surprise, I began to laugh, as Kudo's breath was tickling me. How silly, I thought. My paranoia had got the better of me. Kudo was not insane but only a very playful guy and above all a real flirt! Everything was partly my fault, too. After my reaction to him in the restaurant, one really couldn't blame him for getting the impression that I had a crush on him and wanted him to pick me up. And now we were standing here, pretending to make out in a small side street only to make fun of another stranger. Kudo might be impertinent, but at least not boring and unimaginative like the guys at my school. And he didn't misuse the situation too much, for he barely touched me.

But the blonde guy was pretty impertinent, too, as he was still standing there, watching us skeptically. I wrapped my arms around Shinichi Kudo's head and pretended to close my eyes. Burying my face into Kudo's chest, I could see from the corner of my eyes how the skeptical expression on the face of the stranger twisted into fury and then disappointment. His eyes were glued to my hair with an aggressive, hateful expression I had never seen on another face before.

And suddenly I understood that this wasn't just a game. Shinichi Kudo with his long hair and his strange behaviour; the strawberry blonde woman with the fishnets, who was frowning at me; the waiter, who had eyed my reddish-brown, almost strawberry blonde hair... "I won't let anybody harm you," Shinichi Kudo said.

I groaned quietly, grabbing Kudo's shoulders with both hands, as my knees were giving away. The blonde man didn't move but was still standing at the end of the street, staring at us. I felt more sick than ever and clung to Kudo as if my life depended on him (which was true). It was impossible for me to continue giggling. But Kudo seemed used to improvising, as he didn't bat an eyelid at my reaction. He only stopped playing with my ear and wrapped his arm around me.

"Come on!" He sighed, loudly enough for my stalker to overhear it. "Let's go to my place. There won't be any voyeurs watching us there!"

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"Don't look now," Shinichi Kudo said in a low voice while we were walking through the streets (slowly, as it was impossible to walk fast with his arm around my waist). "He is hiding behind the corner. He is still following us. He wants to know my address so that he can attack you when you leave my house tomorrow morning after our alleged one-night stand."

"And what does he want from me?"

"Your hair... I think it's your hair. Both the women he raped and killed last month had reddish hair. I just can't understand why he preferred you to our decoy. He didn't even look at her. Maybe he doesn't like her because of her dress. But he probably likes your hair more because it looks more natural."

"It is natural!" I knew I should have dyed it!

"Oh," Shinichi Kudo said, pitying me. "That's even worse. It's too dangerous for you to go back to the Grande Suzuki now. We can shake him off behind the next corner and then go to my place."

The Grande Suzuki? Why should I trust him? How could I be sure that he and the blonde Casanova didn't hunt their victims together? If he knew that the guy was a murderer, why didn't he just arrest him or call the police when he noticed that I was in danger? And how on earth could he know that I was staying at the Grande Suzuki? He must have been stalking me since this afternoon... I was getting paranoid.

"Better me than him, don't you think so?"

"What do you mean?"

"Better being murdered by me than by him, right? At least I would never rape you!" He chuckled, making fun of my fear. He behaved as if he could read my thoughts.

"Was it supposed to be a joke?" I stared at him in disbelief. I was stalked by a mad murderer and he was laughing. He looked genuinely amused.

"I only noticed that you didn't trust me. But I promise that I won't touch you. I won't let anyone else touch you either. So, make yourself ready to run when I tell you."

We turned left at the corner.

"Now!" He said, let go of my waist, grabbed my hand, and began to race towards the next corner and turned right, dragging me with him. I tried to keep up with him, which was impossible in the sandals I was wearing. To make matters worse, it had started to rain again.

He cried out in exasperation and threw me over his shoulder with surprising strength. Warpping my legs around his left and my shoulders around his right arm, he turned at the next corner at the left and crouched down, hid behind some old containers.

"Uhm," I said, reminding him that I was still hanging over his shoulders.

"Hush," he responded.

I began to feel quite stupid, hanging like that around his neck. Nonetheless I felt an overwhelming desire to laugh at the strangeness of our first encounter. But I didn't laugh. Neither did he. A shadow ran past us, stopped and came back, stood for a moment at the small lane where we were hiding before it left us and ran away, its footsteps growing quieter and quieter until we couldn't hear them anymore.

"You girls and your shoes!" Shinichi Kudo sighed, turning his head to the left to throw a disapproving glance at my feet. I wondered if he noticed that my legs were dangling at his ear. I tried to look into his face, but it was impossible to do so (considering the fact that I was still draped around his neck). All I could see were his shirt and his left arm around my calves.

He let go of my shoulders to free his right hand and pulled a tiny mobile phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

"Everything okay here," he said into the phone. "Please stay where you are. I'll call you in ten minutes." Then he wrapped his arm around my shoulders again.

He rose and left the lane to walk down the street in long strides, carrying me on his shoulders as if he had forgotten me there. The idea came to me that he might really be a mad murderer and that everything was only a scheme of the blonde man and him to deceive me. But, despite myself, I felt safe, as I had the feeling that he wasn't going to harm me. It seemed he had saved my life, I thought, gazing at the wet street and the soaked shirt he was wearing, and got a strange feeling in my stomach when I recalled the worried expression in his eyes when he looked through the mirror at me. He would have helped me even if it wasn't his job. But I also knew that I shouldn't take it personally. He would have been concerned about any other person just as he was concerned about me. I guess it was just a character trait of his, something which had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his personality.

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